


Hypoxia

by Pixie (magnetgirl)



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Trapped, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/pseuds/Pixie
Summary: sassysaltysarcasticstupid requested T'Pol and Trip Tucker +Smooch22:in a rush of adrenaline





	Hypoxia

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the unseen years between "Terra Prime" and "These are the Voyages..." when they are not together - but just as mixed up as ever.

"Listen-"

She flashes him a sharp look, shakes her head very slightly. Really it's only her chin moving, a fraction of an inch to one side and back. Her whole body is tense against his, her chest barely moving as she breathes in tiny controlled bursts. He'd tried to match her, but she's got sixty plus years of conditioning and he's got a bit of an aversion to anything that requires him to sit still too long.

"Okay, but-"

Her chin moves again, faster, crisper, with more, well, emotion truth be told. It's in her eyes, too, and her raised brows and pursed lips. Frustration, he identifies, because he feels it, too. Someone should have found them by now.

 _If_ the comm unit they'd pushed up through the bars is still working, _if_ the signal can get through the layers of rock between them and the surface, _if_ anyone is even monitoring communications on the ship. . .

Someone must have noticed they're missing, right? Captain would. Even if he assumed, correctly as it turns out, that Trip and T'Pol were off somewhere together - which he might the number of nights they'd spent talking about her, and him, and them, in the last few months - well, even if - well, he'd want to know the outcome, right?

He wouldn't - shouldn't - couldn't think _one_ talk or date or whatever-the-hell would lead to them disappearing on purpose for the whole leave. Right?

No, he'd call Trip for an update, maybe, probably, definitely, T'Pol, too, and when he got no response he'd do a sweep and find the signal and any minute now the hatch would pop open and fresh air would rush into this damned box and their thirsty lungs.

Any minute.

Do lungs get thirsty? He doesn't think so but he also doesn't know the correct word. T'Pol would know, but asking her would require him to speak and he's not supposed to be doing that in order to conserve oxygen. Trip's about as good at not speaking as he is at staying still, which is why she's silently glaring at him. That and that he'd gotten them stuck in the shrinking room built of rock in the first place.

Trip swallows a sigh, causing his chest to shudder against hers. The space between her brows crinkles and his fingers twitch. She shakes her head again but he ignores it, raises his hand to press a finger gently against her skin. He wants to smooth her frown, but instead it deepens.

"Sorry," he murmurs, "instinct."

T'Pol purses her lips, but her eyes soften. In the low light her skin almost glows, creating the effect of a halo. He feels lightheaded.

There's so much to say, so much between them, but it would steal her breath in the wrong kind of way, and he has no indication she wants to hear it anyway, now or at all. Archer thought she would, but what does he know about anything, can't even find their distress signal - honestly, he picked the worst possible day to stop obsessing about his officers' love lives.

But Trip doesn't want to spend his last lucid minutes annoyed at his best friend, or his own missed opportunities. Still watching T'Pol's eyes he imagines gathering all his frustration, all his anger and worry, all his petty thoughts, even the confession he wants to make, the desire and affection that grip his heart, and shapes it all into a ball, a marble - no, a dandelion. He makes his mouth into an 'o' and blows it all away as best he can.

His breath is cool against T'Pol's skin. Her eyelids flutter, eyes wide and bright with her own swirling emotions. He smiles to see it.

The room shakes suddenly, jolting their bodies, and the mechanism that trapped them reverses. The walls spread apart, the couple detangle and fall back, gasping as fresh air rushes in. A side portal opens with a thud to reveal Captain Archer, beside their host and surrounded by a handful of his staff, plus security and medical.

"I don't think you fully understand the concept of shore leave, Trip - unless flirting with danger is how you relax?"

"Booby traps weren't on the brochure, cap'n."

"Yes, we're discussing it." Archer nods to his companion, the director, as Trip and T'Pol stand, brushing dirt off their sleeves. "You okay?" he asks the Vulcan.

"I am uninjured."

"Good. Doc'll want to check you over, though, both." She nods. Archer points to the left. "Shuttle's that way. Director Frik promises there are no more 'surprises' but, be careful."

"Always am." Archer slaps his shoulder and walks off with the director; the rest of the entourage follow. Trip heads in the other direction, toward the promised shuttle, but T'Pol hangs back. He stops and cocks an eyebrow. "T'Pol?"

Her eyes flicker up to his, widening with confusion and concern. She sets her chin and closes the gap between them swiftly, grasps his neck and pulls him down to meet her lips. The kiss is sudden, powerful, and lingers as the last sounds of the rescue fade completely away. Finally she steps back, clasps her hands, and nods once before starting down the left corridor.

"Hold on. . ." Trip shakes his head and rubs his neck to be sure he's awake before rushing to catch up to T'Pol, who's neglected to hold, or even slow. "Hey." He touches her sleeve and she pauses, and meets his gaze. "What was that?"

T'Pol squares her shoulders. "Instinct."


End file.
